Death God's Window

By Troy A. Smith

It’s the holidays, Samuel Jacobs is far from cheerful, and miles from his intended destination.
Stranded in McPherson, Kansas, Samuel finds himself derailed from his simple day-to-day life and thrown into a bizarre and mystical realm ruled by powerful deities. There, he meets the girl of his dreams and embarks on a perilous quest to a place shadowed in unspeakable evil.
Throughout his tumultuous journey, Samuel digs deep to maintain his humanity, fights insurmountable odds, and reaches personal heights that he thought never existed.
Samuel puts the “s” in stubborn, and is mentally tough, but is it enough to face the wrath of two gods of creation?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troy A. Smith
• Release date: Feb 18, 2016

Troy A. Smith

As a child, Troy's greatest dream was to, someday, gain superpowers. From playing superheroes with neighborhood kids, to collecting comic books, his imagination soared.At the age of 15, he and his closest friend began writing and illustrating graphic novels. Troy quickly discovered that his creativity was at its best in front of a keyboard. Writing soon became a passion for him. After earning a BA in Communications from Wichita State University, Troy packed his belongings and moved to Seattle where he met his loving wife.If he's not pounding out a story on his keyboard, he's neck-deep in anime, fantasy novels, practicing martial arts, exercising fanatically, eating home cooked meals (from a serving platter), indulging in as much travel as possible and--patiently awaiting those elusive superpowers.

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Copyright © 2015 by Troy A. Smith

All rights reserved

Graphic pages created by Troy A. Smith

Graphic Art & Design Copyright © 2015 by Troy A. Smith

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Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced or stored in any retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic mechanical, recording, photocopying, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are utilized fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.

This book is dedicated to my inner circle.

You know who you are.

Imagine

Create

Dream

Remember

Fafa

Mom Dearest

Milky

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Copyright

Dedication

PART ONE: MODERA

Chapter 1: McPherson Kansas

Chapter 2: Tes

Chapter 3: Meeting Itzel

Chapter 4: Mindful

Chapter 5: Popol Vuh Direct Descendant

Chapter 6: Four Great Territories

Chapter 7: Zamal Inn

Chapter 8: Bloodwood Forest

Chapter 9: Guarderos Grant Passage

Chapter 10: Nai Fruit

Chapter 11: The Sun God's Future Bride

Chapter 12: Itzel Confides & Requests

Chapter 13: The Great Tabletica

PART TWO: XIBALBA

Chapter 14: Into the Darkness

Chapter 15: A Way In

Chapter 16: The Hunt

Chapter 17: Riding the Wave

Chapter 18: Captured

Chapter 19: P-Y-T - A Window in the Past

Chapter 20: The Death God

Chapter 21: The Goddess Ix Chel

Chapter 22: The Goddess Confides

Chapter 23: Hun & Vukub

PART THREE: APOYO

Chapter 24: Life vs. Death

Chapter 25: N-Cluster

PART FOUR: PURIFIED BY FIRE

Chapter 26: Return to Modera

Chapter 27: Restoration

Chapter 28: Transformation

Chapter 29: The Sun God

Chapter 30: A Love Loss

Chapter 31: Wrath of a Sun God

Chapter 32: The Hunger of a Red Giant

Chapter 33: Earth's Enlightenment

Chapter 34: Tazren's Concern

Chapter 35: See Where the Heart Knows

Chapter 36: Hard Truths

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Inside each of us, there is the seed of both good and evil. It's a constant struggle as to which one will win. And one cannot exist without the other.

— Eric Burdon

We often want what is unobtainable, and when we are unable to obtain our heart’s desire, spite will fill the void.

— Goddess Ix Chel

"Fear: that one emotion that stirs panic, flight or a debilitating hesitation that renders one petrified, frozen as motionless as the figure in Edvard Munch’s The Scream painting."

— Samuel Jacobs

The human race…a brood of fearful creatures cursed with the aptitude for destruction, but blessed with the omnipotence to love.

— Samuel Jacobs

Chapter 1

McPherson, Kansas

SWEAT DRIPPED FROM THE TIP OF MY NOSE and fell across my dry lips. Salty. I adjusted my eyeglasses with an index finger and imagined a pelting Kansas rain cooling my frustration.

Bulbous, dark gray clouds threatened for a downpour, but the air was stagnant, devoid of the sweet scent of rain. What a big tease. I stopped gazing skyward, studied my wrist and scowled at my HoloWatch. The more I watched time pass on that bright, indigo display, the quicker I wanted this night to end. I guess this night could get worse.

I needed to get back to Wichita for an 8:00 am meeting with the owners of Kikan Enterprises—the failing hydro fuel firm I work for—on a project that took me two grueling weeks to close.

For 27 long years, I have had the same job. Oh sure, I am still good at what I do. Many of my colleagues would even say I pioneered a few key business procedures and processes in transitioning biofuel companies into utilizing a more efficient and cost effective fuel source (hydro fuel), but how fulfilling is that when I should be elsewhere doing something amazing. Where and what that is…I have no damn clue.

I do know what I’m not going to do: adhere to unobtainable expectations or French kiss the boots of the taskmasters responsible for our business slipping into the toilet.

The Kikan owners are smug, selfish ball sacks. Larry, Moe and damn Curly. They are far too busy covering their own asses to give a flying fart about the other 85 employees who work so damn hard for them. Chapter 11 is their ultimate cure-all. That’s turd thinking! The only answer: cut their salaries 10% and invest in a more lucrative fuel technology that I have pitched them for a few months now. Since Kikan’s main product is hydro fuel, which is old technology, it would behoove the owners to invest in the now, nuclear fuel cell technology.

A drop of sweat sprinted down the small of my back, which elicited a string of colorful curse words. I felt like a blackened rump roast in a pressure cooker. I sighed while I glowered at my downed bus. This cannot be happening. I need to catch the next bus out of town. The more time I stand here sweating like a goat in a sauna, the less time for a little shuteye on the way back to Wichita. Although, reviewing my presentation on the bus for an hour before making a beeline to work might be a bit more practical than sleeping.

I indexed my glasses up on my glistening nose. The downed bus sat immobile like a fat, lopsided slug. It blew a thrust vector right here in McPherson, Kansas. I spat another round of curse words. I nearly made it back home.

Nearly.

In retrospect, I noted that I wasn’t alone. Others were riled up as well. No more than ten minutes ago, I had to stop our bus driver from pounding this young jerk into the pavement. Man, he had a nasty mouth. Good thing this tiny, older woman with big red-rimmed bifocals stepped in. She pulled the bus driver away from the guy, which diffused the potential escalation of violence. Well—let’s face it—you can’t blame the bus driver for a busted t-vector and give him hell for it, especially a driver who outweighs you by 100 pounds.

Preserving the peace and getting back to Wichita was priority—well, that and my aches and pains. I needed to get off my feet. My bum knee and lower back were holding a grudge match and I, losing royally, sandwiched in between. Not to mention, the heat didn’t help my disposition. Sweet mother of heaven and earth…it was Hades hot in December! That, in itself, seems preposterous, but I swear it’s true. Hell, if I weren’t standing here repeatedly getting slapped in the face with it, I wouldn’t believe it my damn self. I mumbled underneath my breath, fished in my pants’ pocket and found a damp handkerchief. I’m getting’ too old for this city and motel hoppin business.

I took off my specs and wiped a good amount of sweat from my forehead and neck. It’s been the hottest December in the Midwest on record. So hot that the Arkansas River nearly dried up over the past couple of months. And, to make matters worse, this mega heat wave, not only stretched across Kansas and the rest of the United States, it spread its fiery warmth across the entire globe.

Leading Meteorologists to top world scientists drone on and on about how our sun produces an abnormal amount of solar flare activity. Boo-hoo. Sniffle. Sniffle. And some speculate—quite stupidly in my opinion, that the sun’s heightened solar flare activity is a precursor to a mega solar storm that’s exponentially more violent than the one recorded way back in 2003, which produced such a crazy eruption it left millions of Canada’s finest citizens without power for half a day.

The entire yapitty damn yap about our sun having a bad case of indigestion was pureed crap. Here you go global citizens: eat up cause next week we’ll spoon feed you another succulent dish of explanations as to why it’s so hot. I shoved my glasses back on with a frown.

It’s just global warming—period!

Often, I feel as if Mother Nature cursed the human race for every sin committed on the planet. She plagued nations with the most horrific natural disasters ever recorded in human history: city-destroying tsunamis, handfuls of monster tornadoes touching down in densely populated cities, terrifying earthquakes, flash floods, and mudslides so intense entire coastal areas threaten to slip into the ocean.

The body count escalates, as does the frequency of natural disasters. Now, we have a heat wave that is drying up all our fresh water reservoirs, which cause global droughts. Our polar ice caps are melting, and people across the world, in coastal regions, displaced in scores because of the rising sea levels.

I filled my lungs and exhaled long and hard to help calm my nerves. Complaining will not right our planet’s illnesses, nor change my lack of transportation to Wichita. I closed my eyes, took two more deep breaths and forced the negative thoughts away.

It worked.

I picked up my two pieces of luggage with a grimace and wobbled over to the Wheat County Motel along with the other passengers who poured off our downed bus. Suffering through a night at the Wheat did cross my mind, but I knew better. If I did that, there’s no way I’d get to that meeting on time.

With a grunt, I placed my luggage on the sidewalk in front of the Wheat. I needed to take a quick breather. I stretched my torso. My back popped in several familiar places. I yawned and tapped my HoloWatch. A neon blue holographic directory popped up inches above my wrist displaying contact photos and personal information. I scrolled through the directory, touching the holographic image with my index finger until I found Harold Kikan, the youngest owner. My finger hovered. I struggled with placing a voice message in Harold’s inbox. Rescheduling won’t fly. The Bennington Bio-Tech account is like a block of unrefined uranium to the company’s bottom line this quarter. Harold would blow his lid if I rescheduled. Well, I have no choice but to get a schedule and find another bus headed back to Wichita. Please let Metro run late tonight. I shut down my HoloWatch with a voice command and picked up my luggage. This will be a quick in-and-out operation.

So, I filed into the Wheat along with all the other grumpy passengers. The central air whirred like an attic fan, blasting the lobby with its arctic breath. It was refreshing, as were the hints of cinnamon and chocolate wafting from a coffee and hot cocoa station nestled in the corner. Holiday cheer permeated the air. I dropped my heavy luggage on the tiled floor.

The Wheat had Christmas décor strewn about. The lobby was clean, but cramped. A long, brown L-shape leather sofa, with an unsightly split along its left armrest sat heavily guarded along the eastern wall. Like secret service bodyguards, a handful of dated armchairs and a makeshift coffee table surrounded the sofa, each waiting eagerly to hammer a knee or stub a toe if you breached its security zone.

There were far too many folks in this tiny place. I stood in line for twenty minutes before I stepped up to the front desk counter. Behind the counter stood a young, model-handsome male clerk working feverishly on a retro Bluetooth keyboard that I hadn’t seen for decades. The holographic workstations must be on lay-away. There were three empty stations beside him with the same archaic setup.

Happy holidays, sir, the clerk announced. May I help you?

I adjusted my glasses and peered over the top of the rims, sizing up the clerk. He was barely over 21, rail thin, tall, sickeningly handsome, had short, spiky black hair with blue-tipped highlights, and had ‘Tes’ stenciled on his nametag. On the left side of his long neck, he bore an ornate black elephant tattoo. This kid had a jumpy eagerness that tired me out just lookin at him. From the speed in which his hands glided over the keyboard to taking loud sips from—I’m sure it was leaded—a 32 ounce cup of evening Joe, this kid was tireless, machinelike. Oh, I bet he’ll be up all night hammering away at that old ass keyboard annoying every blasted person who sets foot in this place (except for the ladies, they’ll cozy-up to him I’m sure).

I asked the kid where and when to catch the next bus headed back to Wichita. Without looking up, he grabbed a bus schedule from underneath that polished marble counter and handed it to me. He sipped his Joe loudly and told me a bus will arrive soon. He also voiced and gestured directions to the bus stop’s location. I didn’t believe him for an instant and told him there was no bus coming this late, but the kid nearly swore unto the almighty that the old 316 bus would stop on West Kansas Ave at midnight.

Mr., once a month it stops through here and it’s always headed southbound, he prattled off so fast I barely heard him over all his infernal typing. And, he added, finally looking up from his keyboard with a pair of weird, deep violet eyes (kids and their weird contacts these days), it’s due to arrive in 30 minutes.

That’s my cue.

I placed the bus schedule back on the counter next to his oversized mug of coffee, gave the kid a happy holidays and my thanks, picked up my two cinderblocks of luggage and waddled through a few folks standing in line. As I approached the glass doors I came through earlier, I plopped my luggage at my feet. Before I reached to open the glass door and bustle my luggage through—both doors slammed me in the face.

I yelped with pain.

I took the metal edging of the glass door right on the kisser. As my glasses flew off my face, I stumbled backwards, toppled into my luggage, lost a damn shoe and landed on my ass so hard I nearly bit my tongue off. I awkwardly gathered myself and looked up with blurred vision. Two punks in what looked like cartooned masks holding two double barrel 12’ gauge shotguns (old school), like they were in a damn western, towered over me. They were big. The pair looked like a couple of NFL linebackers wearing ridiculous masks.

Merry furkin Chrismiss! bellowed the one closest to me. Empty yer pockets, folks, no shenanigans and no one gits buckshot. I scrambled for my glasses, found them and put them on. When I looked up, a gleaming double barrel shotgun pointed directly at my nose.

No quick movements, old timer, the guy with the John Wayne mask ordered. Just hand over yer creds and ye won’t git hurt. And, that applies to the rest of ye. Empty yer furkin pockets!

These idiots! Who robs a motel in the middle of the damn night? I don’t have time for this. A riffle resounded like thunder. Anxiety tap-danced on my ticker. Idiot two, giggling like a damn maniac with his Clint Eastwood mask, shot his rifle in the ceiling and began pointing its smoking muzzle at the cowering folks now face down on the polished tiled floor. The 300-pound fool did a little jig and began dry humping the air with the rifle between his legs.

He looked furkin ridiculous.

You can’t go shooting that thing off in the ceiling of a lobby with several rooms above. This motel is old with paper-thin floorboards. Someone will get hurt.

Assholes!

The double barrel nudged my temple, which forced my head to one side. I froze.

Hey, old-timer, John Wayne tapped my temple again to accentuate his point with his best western drawl, I’m goin ta make this reel easy fer ye, give me yer creds and I swear on my maw’s dusty ol grave I won’t blow yer head kleen off.

That sounds reasonable, I pointed out a bit too sarcastically, but wouldn’t it be best to lower your firearm and let me damn think about your offer at my own leisure. I cross my heart to be compliant and give all the creds in my possession if you give me your word to let the rest of these people go. That last part I said with sincerity. Violence, in this case, solves nothing.

John Wayne laughed so hard he farted; and then he and Clint Eastwood roared with laughter. The size of these guys crossed over to ridiculous land; they looked like a couple of goddamn giggling silverbacks with rifles. After three agonizing minutes of knee slapping and monkey farting, John Wayne said, I give ye this—ye’s one brave, old sumbitch, He chuckled darkly while he lowered his gun from my temple and bent over me. Now, here’s how it’s goin ta werk, hoss. On the count of three ye will give up that nice bounty in yer pockets, and these fine folks will remain under my boot until I say otherwise. Com-pren-day, com-pod-ray?

I looked into the eyes of John Wayne. Beyond the two slits in his mask, darkness stared back at me. Soulless. At this distance, his eyes should be visible, but they were empty, devoid of anything good or righteous. Something centipede-like squirmed and burrowed underneath my scalp. I shivered.

I startled as he began his count, One…

I reached in the inside pocket of my blazer and pulled out my netcard.

Two…, he drawled wickedly.

With a shaky hand, I reached out and handed him my netcard. He snatched it away and stood at full height, towering over me with his massive frame.

Times up! John Wayne shouted.

He shot me in the chest.

Chapter 2

Tes

PATTERING OF BUKSHOT FROM FIRING A RIFFLE at close range can be devastating and often lethal, especially if you’re not wearing Kevlar engineered clothes. To my humble misfortune, I left my cashmere Kevlar laced blazer at home (to be honest, I don’t own one, but I wish to hell I had before I walked into the Wheat).

When taking buckshot square in the chest at close quarters, the impact doesn’t blast you 10 feet through the air and into a saloon window facing a dark alley like in the old Hollywood westerns. Nope, it’s nothing like that at all. It’s more like minimal impact movement and, if you’re fortunate enough to survive, your pain sensors register the trauma immediately. One’s breathing becomes short and laborious.

Sprinkles of blood sprayed my glasses. My head hit the tile floor with a thud. Stars exploded across my vision as I looked up at a water-stained ceiling. I clutched my wet chest while childhood memories flashed and melted away, breaking like the waves of a turbulent ocean.

A single thought repeated in my head: I’m going to die.

Fear and shock squeezed me so hard; I thought my chest would implode. To my left, I heard another shotgun blast over my heartbeat throbbing in my ears. With my glasses askew, I turned my head to see Tes leap over the marble counter and plant both feet in Clint Eastwood’s huge barrel chest. Now, that was a Hollywood stunt if I’d ever seen one. Clint’s rifle flew out of his oversized mitts and crashed into the coffee station, spilling its sticky liquids over the floor.

In midair, Tes gracefully bent his knees and drove them deeper into Clint’s chest. As Clint flew several feet backwards, damn near perpendicular to the floor, Tes’ momentum kept him on top and they both fell in a heap that shook the entire lobby. It defied physics that a scrawny kid Tes’ size delivered such a crippling blow to a much larger man. But, there ya have it, Clint—by far—took the worst of that collision. With one blurring effortless chop, Tes delivered a solid blow to Clint’s noggin. Clint laid motionless, expelling more gas as he drifted off to la-la-land.

Then, paralleling a horror movie, John Wayne’s behemoth frame stepped into my line-of-sight, pointed his shotgun at Tes’ back. I tried to scream out a warning to the kid, but all that came out was a wheezy gurgle and a coppery taste of blood flooded my mouth. I coughed so hard it felt like hacking up a lungful of flames.

John Wayne’s shotgun thundered like a cannon. Tess turned to face his assailant. Buckshot sprayed him on the side of the face and neck. Like an acute case of vertigo, my head spun. I felt woozy. Black motes swam lazily at the top of my vision, cascading downward until a serene darkness filled my vision.

I blacked out.

When I came to, a nightmare in Matrix slow motion unfolded before me: tiny indentations of buckshot riddled the right side of Tes’ face and neck. He looked at the shooter with an emotionless expression. Tes should be headless or, at the very least, bleeding uncontrollably. Hell, his brains should be decorating the corner of the lobby’s front windowpane like a Picasso painting.

None of that happened.

As Tes stood at full height, the buckshot imbedded in the side of his face and neck dribbled down his black crewneck T-shirt, spilled to the floor and rolled lopsidedly in different directions. He looked taller, heavier than before. Lean, corded muscles bulged on his exposed forearms and neck.

In an instant, the lobby dropped several degrees. I shivered. Plumes